


Black Eye Syndrome

by Rivendell101



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-28 01:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15697806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivendell101/pseuds/Rivendell101
Summary: And for a moment Rosie wonders when love began to sound like a sudden gush of vitriol and her favorite lamp shattering against the wall behind her head, when it started tasting like bourbon and blood in her mouth from where she bit her cheek. She wonders when loving Matt became a one-sided screaming match and bruises around her wrists, dark marks dotting her thighs from where fingers squeezed to wound, backhanded comments breathed against her collarbones. She wonders when love started to hurt.More than that, she wonders when she started thinking that was okay.





	Black Eye Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> New multi-part story. This will end with Sweet Pea X OC, though it may only be implied. This fic does deal with discussions of abuse and rape, so please be aware of that. Feedback is welcome!

It was her fault.

He just wanted to spend the day with her on her one day off this week, wanted to take her out on a proper date because they haven’t been on one in weeks. He wanted to surprise her, but all she wanted was to go to the Wyrm and see Toni and Fangs and Sweet Pea because it’s felt like months since she last saw any of them. And maybe it has been. She hasn’t been keeping track of time lately. Matt only wanted to spend some time with her and all she’d done was piss him off. And that was her fault.

He’s always had a temper, but that was nothing she ever worried about. Growing up on the Southside meant most people had a temper and knew how to use it, channeling their anger into their fists. She’s been best friends with Sweet Pea for as long as she can remember, and his anger is practically infamous around Riverdale, so no, a temper was never anything she worried about, though maybe it should have been.

Matt’s temper has always been different from Sweet Pea’s, or anyone else she knows from the Southside. Instead of righteous fists and a short fuse, Matt was a switch just waiting to be flipped. His temper came and went without warning, sometimes without provocation, and it would be the smallest things that set him off: she didn’t kiss him goodbye, she missed his phone call, her makeup was too dark around the eyes, her skirt too short.

She’s always had a knack for pushing all of the wrong buttons.

So really, it was her fault.

Rosie isn’t sure exactly how the fight started. Not the first one anyway. She’d made a comment about redecorating the old house, the one that used to belong to her grandmother. The wallpaper started peeling and the entire place wasn’t as homey as it used to be, feeling more tired than anything. Something in the house started feeling  _off_  and Rosie needed to fix it.

He didn’t like the color scheme she was thinking of using, and she refused to pull up the carpet, and it was normal banter, barbed, but harmless.

And then Matt made a grating comment about the lamp in the living room, asking if she was finally going to get rid of it, and it bothered her more than she’d care to admit, because he knew how much she loved that lamp. And really, she should have just let it go, but after a full week of work, she was tired and stressed, and something sarcastic had slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it.

The fight was over before it really started: a handful of snippy remarks and a bruising kiss that left her stomach in knots. That was it. It was nothing serious. Nothing they would remember by the end of the day, and that was fine.

The second fight was worse.

He was just trying to be sweet and she’d picked a fight over it. Rosie didn’t mean to act like a date night wasn’t important to her, hadn’t meant to make it seem like she was choosing her friends at the Wyrm over him, but she did.

She hadn’t meant to snap at him either, but after a long week, all she wanted was to find Toni and complain about long hours and shitty customers and horrible bosses. Matt never cared about those kinds of problems. He never wanted to listen to her whine about them. And that was okay. He didn’t have to, but she still needed to let the words spill out to someone.

Matt took it the wrong way when she told him that, asking if she thought he didn’t care about her. She tried to backtrack but it only made things worse.

He was trying to do something nice and she ruined it, just like she always does.

The shouting started before she knew what was happening, Matt hurling words at her, blaming her for the fight, accusing her of something she can hardly remember, and then the lamp was shattering into pieces beside her head, glass splintering into pieces and piling on the floor, nicking at her skin. She doesn’t remember trying to walk away, but she must have, a firm hand wrapping around her wrist and squeezing until it hurt. And maybe she told him to let go or maybe she didn’t, but when he leaned in to kiss, she’d turned away.

That way the wrong thing to do.

He let go just as quickly, storming out of the house without another word, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving her standing in the middle of the room unsure of what happened, the lamp broken on the floor and the sound of glass shattering ringing in her ears, her hands trembling at her sides, heart practically crawling in her mouth.

And Rosie cleaned up the glass.

That was hours ago, or maybe not. She hasn’t checked the time and the blinds have been drawn shut since Matt stormed out, Rosie unable to bring herself to stand from where she’s curled into the couch.

Matt only wanted to go on a date like they used to. It was the one night they both had off and they were in desperate need of a night out. And she’d picked two fights in exchange and made him storm out the door.

Obviously it was her fault.

So why is she the one curled up on the couch, sick to her stomach and shivering, alone and feeling like her bones are crumbling into dust inside her?

The click of the front door being unlocked makes Rosie’s head snap up, her pupils blown wide. She hugs her knees tight to her chest, tucking them beneath the sweater she must have stolen from Sweet Pea at one point, the loose fabric several sizes too large for her frame, practically swallowing her whole. Despite the fabric she’s drowning in, a desperate ache to make herself even smaller settles deep in Rosie’s bones, a sick feeling twisting at her insides. Her chest goes cold and for a tense moment she forgets how to breathe.

Rosie’s heart lodges in her throat as the door is edged open, old hinges creaking loudly, the soft squeal of the front door making her skin crawl. Matt keeps telling her to fix the hinge, keep the door from making so much noise, but she can’t bring herself to do it. The door hasn’t been fixed since she was a child and it was just her and her grandmother living in this house, one of the few on the Southside. The house is warm and cozy and creaks and squeaks and that’s not something that she wants to change.

It has nothing to do with Matt and the few seconds of warning it gives her when he comes home at three in the morning, piss drunk and looking for an argument.

“Rosie, you home?”

But it’s not Matt that comes through the door. It isn’t blond hair and blue eyes the same color as his letterman jacket. It isn’t stark white sneakers and a thin-lipped smile that cuts through her like a knife. It isn’t unblemished hands that grip too tight and pull too hard. No, it’s dark hair and eyes, a leather jacket with an angry snake twisted across the back, motorcycle boots and a crooked but all too familiar smile, calloused fingertips that have never been anything but gentle with her.

She doesn’t realize she was shaking until she stops, the reaction instantaneous. “What are you doing here, Sweets?” she murmurs from the couch, pulling at a loose thread in her sweater, the soft gray fabric making her red hair shine just a little bit brighter. The smile that pulls at her lips is small, a little sad but more genuine than it’s been in days.

Rosie practically lights up when she sees Sweet Pea standing in the doorway, even if it isn’t nearly as bright as it used to be.

He grins back at her, rolling his shoulders as he shuts the door behind him, that awful squeal splitting through the room. “A little bird told me it was your day off,” he jokes, eyes crinkling at the edges in good humor. “Said you might swing by the Wyrm.” He leaves the sentence hanging in the air, unfinished, but the implication glaringly obvious.

But she didn’t come by. And he hasn’t seen her in  _weeks_. And he’s been worried about her. There’s no accusation in his eyes or his voice, but it still makes her curl tighter in on herself, Rosie’s stomach twisting into knots as Sweet Pea sends her a look so filled with open concern that she might suffocate under it, because Sweet Pea never looks at  _anyone_  like that.

Rosie practically shrinks under his gaze and something in his eyes flickers, but it’s there and gone before she can tell what it was. Before she can say anything, Sweet Pea continues, leaning sideways against the wall, expression soft but unreadable. “We’ve missed you down there. Some of the younger boys keep asking where you’ve been.” Again, there’s something unspoken in his words, his voice low and rough.

He hasn’t been able to give them an answer, which is something that hasn’t happened in years. They’ve always known where to find each other, ever since they were kids, but in the last few months things have shifted, just enough for things to seem off,  _wrong_.

Rosie isn’t a Serpent. She never has been, probably never will, but she might as well be. They know her name and her face down at the Wyrm. They know she has a lilting voice like some kind of siren and a mean right hook for someone five foot nothing and how she’s the only one that can stop Sweet Pea when he goes looking for a fight. The Serpents know she’s as much Sweet Pea’s as he is hers, that she wears one of his rings on a chain around her neck and that he has a rose tattooed on the inside of his left arm where no one can see it.

The two of them are practically attached at the hip. It’s been that way since they were seven years old and Sweet Pea pulled at her curls, awestruck by her wild copper hair, and she retaliated by punching him square in the jaw. He lost a baby tooth and her knuckles bruised and it was in that moment that Sweet Pea knew he would do absolutely anything for her, to keep her safe.

She’s always been wildfire. Bright and raging and all-consuming, burning through people in the best ways.

And six months ago that fire was put out, even if it doesn’t seem like it.

That’s when things started to change. It was so gradual that she didn’t even recognize it was happening at first. It started slow, a few missed movie nights with Toni and the girls because Matt wanted to stay in, abandoning her late night talks with Fangs because Matt didn’t like it when they were alone together, not visiting the Wyrm as much because Matt didn’t like the crowd and didn’t want her going alone, not seeing Sweet Pea nearly as much because Matt said he didn’t like the way he looked at her. Matt’s grip turning bruising whenever Sweet Pea was mentioned, his smile thin and his eyes angry.

Rosie catches her lower lip between her teeth, biting down hard but being careful not to break the skin, aware of Sweet Pea watching her. She can practically feel his gaze washing over her, but where it would usually feel comforting all she can feel is an itch under her skin, her stomach in knots. “I didn’t feel like going out today,” she tells him, because it’s as close to the truth as she’s willing to give. After her fight with Matt she really didn’t want to leave the house. It would only make him more upset later. “Besides,” she continues, sending him what she hopes is an easy smile, “I’ve been busy. And so have you, from what I’ve heard.”

FP has been giving him more jobs lately, slowly passing the mantle to the younger generation. It kills her a little that she hasn’t been there for him, to patch up his bloody knuckles and tell him how damn  _proud_  of him she is, because the Serpents are going to do great things because of him.

Sweet Pea snorts, but his smile is fond as he finally pushes away from the wall, a familiar teasing glint in his eyes. “Your boyfriend steals all your time,” he tells her, kicking off his boots as he steps further into the house.

It’s meant to be a joke, the same kind of friendly ribbing they’ve always had, but it cuts deeper that it’s meant to. Rosie doesn’t mean to flinch but she does. And Sweet Pea catches the motion. He goes tense, straightening to his full height, on edge because she is.

Brushing her hair over her shoulder, Rosie stares down at her bare toes, avoiding his eyes. Her sweater slips lower on her shoulder with the motion, the newly bared skin going cold. “Yeah, well, that shouldn’t be a problem today,” she replies, somewhat strained, still not looking at him.

The air in the room grows cold, both of them silent for several heartbeats to long. Sweet Pea shifts from one leg to the other, his eyes narrowing just a tick. “You two get in a fight?” There’s something off about the way he says it, an edge to the question that she doesn’t want to think about.

Because it wasn’t that bad. Not really. And it was her fault anyway.

“Something like that,” she concedes, knowing she can’t tell him a blatant lie. “But it doesn’t matter.” She finally looks at him again, a small smile pulling at her lips. Sweet Pea’s stance doesn’t slacken, his gaze still sharper than a knife, and she unfurls herself from the sweater she’s drowning in, toes curling into the couch cushion. “It’ll blow over. Nothing major. You know how it is.”

He doesn’t. And she hopes he never does.

It takes a moment, but he softens, deflating just as quickly as he went still, the tension slipping from his shoulders. Sweet Pea takes a step towards her and Rosie looks down at her hands, her fingers curling around the sleeves of her sweater.

“Your lamp is gone,” Sweet Pea says suddenly, causing Rosie to jolt from her spot on the couch. Her gaze immediately flicks to the empty spot on the other end of the couch, the side table bare where the lamp was this morning. It’s almost as if it was never there at all.

There’s an edge to Sweet Pea’s voice that’s thicker and rougher than before and it makes her stomach twist sickly. The way he says it makes it seem like a bigger deal than it really is. And maybe it  _is_  a big deal.

She fought tooth and nail for that lamp. It was an ugly little thing, oddly-shaped and lumpy in all the wrong places, a putrid yellow color with a bulb that never gave off enough light for the lamp to be put to any use. It probably wasn’t worth half of what the thrift store was selling it for, but god did she love it. It looked exactly like the one her grandmother used to keep in her house. Maybe it  _was_  the same one, she doesn’t know. After seeing that thing in the window of the shop for months, she finally brought it home one winter night when she was sixteen.

It was an eyesore and her friends all teased her about it, but they were careful when it came to that lamp, as if it were a baby bird, because they knew how much it meant to her.

The side table where it sat looks bare without it, a thin layer of dust coating the surface around the lamp where she hasn’t cleaned it for a week. It looks wrong somehow without her lamp, out of place, and the way Sweet Pea stares at the naked space where it used to be unsettles her to her very core.

“Matt didn’t like it,” Rosie says breezily, shrugging, and Sweet Pea’s gaze snaps to her face, his eyes narrowing in a look she’s entirely familiar with, but she chooses to ignore it, curling in on herself and playing with the worn sleeves of her baggy sweater. He looks at her like he can see right through her, as if he can see the dip in the wall behind her where that lamp shattered inches from her head, as if he can see the shallow cut on her shoulder from where a shard nicked her skin or the way Matt grabbed her when she tried to walk away. And maybe Sweet Pea can.

Her breath catches in her throat, her hands beginning to tremble. She refuses to look him in the eyes, fiddling with a loose thread on her sweater. He’s always had a way of just knowing what’s going on in her head, even when she wished he couldn’t. There’s a certain vulnerability that comes with the way he looks at her, like he’s peeling back her skin and seeing all the little things that make her tick, and she can’t have that right now.

And it’s not a lie, not really. Matt really didn’t like the lamp. He never has. Hell, he practically  _hated_  it. He always said it was a bad color, that it was too bulky in the room and that it wasn’t worth keeping around. It was only a coincidence that it was the closest thing within reach at the time. Or maybe it wasn’t. She can never be quite sure. There have been so many accidents that she doesn’t know when exactly they started being on purpose.

“Besides,” she continues quickly, noticing the dark flicker in Sweet Pea’s eyes, “it was time for a change.” Her smile feels too bright, too forced, unnatural in the way it pulls at her lips, and she hopes he doesn’t notice it. “I’ve been thinking about redecorating,” Rosie tells him, “and it was hard to do with that lamp it here.” Her smile dampens into something a little sad, a little bitter. “It really was an ugly thing.”

He’s quiet for a long, tense moment, and then, “you love that lamp.”

“Yeah.” And that’s the end of it. She’s clammed up and Sweet Pea knows her well enough to know that’s all he’ll get out of her even if he doesn’t like it.

He hesitates, still halfway across the room, and Rosie thinks he might press the subject, but then Sweet Pea sighs, seeming to deflate entirely, the tension draining from him like water. His footsteps are loud against the floor, and as he gets closer she’s overtaken by the smell of gasoline and wood smoke and the cologne he always wears that she can’t remember the name of, but has branded in her memory regardless.

“All right, Sweetness,” he murmurs, voice low and softer than usual, “move over.”

Rosie’s head snaps up, her eyes narrowing in confusion. “What?” She barely gets the word out before he drops onto the couch next to her, nearly on top of her. Rosie shrieks softly in surprise, barely moving her feet out of the way in time to not be squished by him. “Sweet Pea!” He only grins in response and it startles a laugh out of her, Rosie’s shoulders shaking with the force of it.

He reaches out to ruffle her hair, making the curly strands an even bigger mess, and she swats him away playfully, leaning into the familiar contact and making him smile wider. Sweet Pea’s hand leaves her head, instead falling to her bare leg, his hand on her calf. “You still have your trashy musical stash?” he asks, giving her a gentle squeeze.

“They aren’t trashy,” she scoffs, nudging his thigh with her toes in a halfhearted kick that only makes him laugh.

Sweet Pea ignores her comment, giving her leg a pinch that’s more surprising than painful. Rosie jerks her leg away, shooting him a playfully sour look, the two of them falling back into a natural rhythm together, one that a few months of distance can’t break them from. “Go grab it,” he tells her, knocking his leg against hers and jerking his chin towards the stairs.

Her head cocks to the side, eyes narrowing in slight confusion. “Why? You don’t like musicals.” He never has, though he’s begrudgingly suffered through movie musical nights, outnumbered by Rosie, Toni, and Fangs.

The look he sends her is almost surprised. “You do,” he replies, as if it’s that simple. One of his shoulders tilts up in a half-shrug, his eyes locked with hers.

The easy answer cracks something inside of her.

The next few hours drift by, slow and warm and more at ease than she’s been in days. The two of them slip into a comfortable silence, a musical neither of them are really paying any attention to playing on the old TV. Sweet Pea has his gaze on the screen, the flickering lights casting shadows across his face, his eyes so much darker in the low light. He isn’t watching the movie though, and they both know it, but he pretends to be sucked into the characters on screen anyway.

And Rosalie pretends she isn’t glancing at the clock every few minutes, worried that Matt might come home and catch her wrapped up with Sweet Pea on the couch. It’s not that they’re doing anything inappropriate. They’re barely touching aside from her legs tossed across his lap and the fingers he has curled around her ankle, anchoring the two of them together with a loose grip, but Matt would pick a fight over it anyway. He’s always hated how close she is with Sweet Pea, how well he knows her and how easily the two of them fit together, slotting against each other like it’s  _right_. And maybe they are too close, but he’s always been home to her. She couldn’t cut him from her life if she wanted to, not without losing herself in the process.

Sweet Pea’s thumb traces slow circles against her ankle as they watch the movie, and slowly, hesitantly, she relaxes against him, letting out a breath she’s been holding since Matt threw the lamp. She presses tighter against Sweet Pea’s side, just enough to curl her fingers are the sleeve of his jacket, the leather familiar beneath her fingertips. Maybe he doesn’t notice, or maybe he just pretends not to, but he doesn’t react to her movement, letting her do what she needs to.

He’s always known when she’s needed words and when she doesn’t, and right now Rosie is content to just sit here with him, to not be alone.

She doesn’t notice when her sleeve rides up, her wrist dark where Matt grabbed her earlier. Sweet Pea does.

He goes still against her side, inhaling sharply through his nose. The sudden sound draws her attention, and she glances at him, only to find his gaze drawn lower, his eyes wide with a confusing mix of emotion. “Rosie, what the hell happened to your arm?”

She doesn’t flinch. Barely breathes. Tries not to let her hands tremble. “It was an accident.” It tastes like a lie on her tongue, and her throat grows tight, but she swallows it back, not wanting to worry him. “I must have bumped into something.”

He doesn’t look convinced, his eyes narrowing further. “And you didn’t notice?” He snorts softly, shaking his head, and lifts her wrist closer to his face, his hand gentle as he cradles her wrist in his much larger palm. “You don’t bruise that easy,” Sweet Pea mumbles, more to himself than her, and for a horrifying moment she thinks he might recognize the faint lines around her wrist as being from fingers, but he only smooths his thumb across the bruises that decorate her skin like an ugly bracelet, attached so neatly to her skin that she can’t rip them out.

“Maybe I need more iron in my diet,” she jokes, shrugging. Gently, she tugs her wrist free from Sweet Pea’s loose grip, letting her hand drop back into her lap.

His brows furrow, his thumb still tracing circles against her ankle. “I keep telling you that kale isn’t a meal.”

Rosie huffs a laugh. “Sorry I don’t eat three burgers in one sitting like you do.” She nudges his ribs with her knee, poking at his soft spot and making him jerk away from her. She’s watched him put away more food at once than she would ever know what to do with, and she’s never sure if she should be impressed or disgusted by it.

Sweet Pea snorts, fingers squeezing around her ankle just enough so that she can feel it. “Oh please,” he scoffs back at her, rolling his eyes in amusement. “I’ve seen you put away enough fries to put Jughead to shame.” He bumps his shoulder against hers, eyes bright with amusement. “You only started eating like a lady when you started dating The Northsider.”

She prods at his side again, squirming against his lap and making him release his grip on her ankle. “I’ve always been a lady, Sweet Pea,” she argues, clicking her tongue at him and shaking her head, unable to hide the smile growing on her face.

“You keep telling yourself that, Sweetness,” he says, patting her leg to placate her, “but I’ve seen you make grown men cry before.”

“If they cried they deserved it.”

Rosie can feel his laughter echo through her bones.

* * *

She wakes up to a heavy hand shaking her shoulder roughly, the smell of whiskey thick in the air, and Matt’s voice low in her ear. “Rose,” he slurs, shaking her again. “Rosalie. Wake up, Baby.” The hand on her arm is incessant, grip too tight as she’s dragged out of sleep.

“Matt?” she murmurs back to him, shifting on the couch until she’s facing him. “What time is it?” Dimly, Rosie is aware of Sweet Pea leaving at some point after the sun had gone down, the sky black and the house quiet as he shut off the television. The entire room was dark, a thin sliver of moonlight creeping in through the blinds, just enough for her to catch the outline of Sweet Pea’s body as he slide out from underneath her, laying her legs down gently against the couch. She was only half awake, exhausted by the days events, and a part of her wanted to ask him to stay with her, not wanting to be alone in the house, but her thoughts were slow, her tongue heavy in her mouth.

Sweet Pea mumbled something she didn’t catch, brushing the hair from her face with a gentle hand, his fingers lingering against her cheek for a heartbeat too long. Something warm and heavy was draped over her frame, covering her like a blanket. Then he was gone, slipping out of the house without waking her.

She can’t help but be relieved that he left before Matt came home.

“Hey, Baby,” Matt repeats, tugging her around to face him. “I’m sorry its so late, but I didn’t want to leave this until morning,” he tells her. There are roses on the table, a dozen of them, and she never has liked roses much. Matt continues before she can say anything, forcing her to sit up as he speaks. Something slips from her lap onto the couch, but she doesn’t pay it any attention. “I shouldn’t have broken the lamp. I shouldn’t have thrown it at you, but god, Rosie, you just make me so damn angry sometimes,” he tells her, and something about the words makes her sick, but she’s caught in his blue gaze and it paralyzes her. “I never mean to hurt you, Baby,” he continues, practically cooing. His hands come up to cup her face.

She sends him the best smile she can manage, nodding her head. “I know,” she whispers, allowing him to pull her to her feet, her mind still foggy with sleep, everything slow.

He continues, but she’s only half listening, already knowing what he’s saying. That’s he’s sorry. That it won’t happen again. That it was her fault. That if she would just stop making him mad, they wouldn’t have to fight. “I just… what the  _fuck_  is that.” The break from the routine makes her jump, Matt more angry than she’s ever heard him before. He sucks in an angry break, his hand on her chin gripping tight enough to leave a mark. She thinks she asks what’s wrong, but she can’t be sure if her mouth forms the words with the way he’s squeezing her jaw. “Jesus  _fucking_  Christ,” he sneers, “what the fuck is this, Rosalie?”

She’s confused until he forces her head around so quickly she hears a crack in her neck, the leather jacket resting on the couch the only thing that could be out of place.

Rosie lets out a breath, not understanding the severity of it when she’s only just beginning to wake up. “Matt, it’s just a jacket,” she mumbles back to him. She stiffens as soon as she says it, snapping awake as she realizes what’s wrong, realizes that Sweet Pea left his jacket behind, either on purpose or not.

The angry green snake patch glares back at the two of them, and Rosie wishes it would leap off the fabric and swallow her whole.

Matt jerks her back around to look at him, blue eyes a hurricane as he glares down at her, a storm swirling in his eyes that promises nothing good. “You screwing a serpent now, Rosie?” he sneers in her face, breath thick with alcohol. He’s drunk.

“No,” she gasps back. “No! God, Matt, it’s Sweet Pea’s!” She realizes it’s the wrong thing to say just a moment later.

Matt goes still, so still she’s not even sure if he’s breathing anymore. His grip on her goes slack and she stumbles backwards away from him, nearly tripping on the edge of the couch as she backs up against the wall. Matt only stares down at the leather jacket on the couch, expression lank. “Sweet Pea was here.” It isn’t a question and they both know it.

Rosie wets her lips, arms curling tight around herself. She bunches her sweater in her hands, trying to keep her fingers from shaking. “He stopped by earlier,” she whispers, unable to look Matt in the eye. Maybe it’s because he’s drunk or maybe it’s because he isn’t yelling anymore, but there’s something unnerving about him, like a single word would set him off.

Something that isn’t quite a laugh spills from his lips. “What,” he mumbles, “so we get in one fight and you…” he doesn’t finish the thought, but the implication is there.

“We’re friends, Matt,” she spits back, straightening and forcing herself to look at him, all wildfire. Something about Sweet Pea being here earlier making her feel braver than she should. “He’s allowed to come to my house.”

Matt’s eyes snap to hers, his gaze just as intense as hers. He straightens to his full height, barely six feet tall, but still towering over her. He doesn’t say a word, barely blinks, and then suddenly she’s shoved back against the wall and his mouth is on hers in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, lips practically bruising against hers. He lifts her straight off the ground, forcing her legs to lock around his hips, and his hands are everywhere: her thighs, her hips, around her throat and  _squeezing_. And maybe she tries to push him away once, but when he doesn’t budge she relents, and then her hands are being held above her head and she’s too lost in the sensations to think that something isn’t right.

The sex that follows is bruising, less make-up and more make-a-point. His hands are careless and bruising, containing none of the soft wandering as usual, and he practically hisses in her ear: possessive things, humiliating things, snarls of “do you think Sweet Pea could make you moan like this?”. And in the morning he’d chalk it up to rough sex, like always. And he’d give her a look that would make her feel stupid and small for even mentioning it, because she always had liked it rough, hadn’t she? And she’d never be able to find the words to address the satisfaction that would flash in his eyes whenever she’d wince in pain, like he  _wants_  to hurt her.

And for a moment Rosie wonders when love began to sound like a sudden gush of vitriol and her favorite lamp shattering against the wall behind her head, when it started tasting like bourbon and blood in her mouth from where she bit her cheek. She wonders when loving Matt became a one-sided screaming match and bruises around her wrists, dark marks dotting her thighs from where fingers squeezed to wound, backhanded comments breathed against her collarbones. She wonders when love started to  _hurt_.

More than that, she wonders when she started thinking that was okay.


End file.
